Change in the Only Constant
Title: Change in the Only Constant
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R (hard)
Word Count: 1,592
Summary: There's a darkness in him, an angry festering hole. It makes him laugh at the moon, head tipped back and eyes wild, taking vicious pleasure in the fact that the monster outside reflects the monster within.
There's a darkness in him, an angry festering hole. It makes him laugh at the moon, head tipped back and eyes wild, taking vicious pleasure in the fact that the monster outside reflects the monster within.
He runs through the night, that mad laughter still ringing in his ears, hunting down anything foolish enough to cross his path.
A pair of rabbits. A squirrel. Something with feathers he thinks might have been a quail. All run, but none run fast enough.
When he wakes in the morning there is a foul tastes in his mouth and blood crusted on his lips. Erica makes a face and Derek rolls his eyes. And Isaac laughs again. Because what is there to be afraid of when the monster in the closet is him?
---
It starts with a kiss. Or, more accurately, a shove that turned into a kiss-- dark and filthy and so full of hate that Isaac can almost taste it when he licks his way inside.
Stiles's rocks against him, hands tangled up in Isaac's curls, fingers twisting viciously, yanking Isaac's head back and exposing his neck. He tears his mouth away from Isaac's, angles his head and then bites, teeth snapping closed on the side of Isaac's neck, sending icy tendrils of want through Isaac's veins.
They rutt together like animals, fast and dirty, gasping out curse words as they come.
Isaac sneers as he pulls away, opens his mouth to say something nasty, but Stiles beats him to the punch.
"Don't think this means I like you," he pants, grimacing as he adjusts himself. "Because I still think you're a dick."
And Isaac laughs because it's perfect. Stiles is perfect, with his angry eyes and that bitter twist to his lips.
"You loved it," Isaac taunts, rubbing his sticky crotch against Stiles, laughing harder at the annoyed look he gets in response.
---
He watches from the shadows, far enough away not to be spotted. Derek might think that lurking in plain sight makes things easier, a slightly less bitter pill to swallow, but Isaac knows better.
So he waits for the cover of dark before making his move, climbing halfway up a tree two blocks down from where he desperately wants to be. His eyes are trained on a window. Stiles’s window. The light is off, has been for the last twenty minutes, and Stiles’s breathing has settled into the soft rhythm of sleep.
There is nothing more to see here. Barely anything to hear. But Isaac sits and Isaac watches, waiting for the morning and the light it brings with it.
---
Stiles's face is twisted up in a snarl, his hands balled into fists. He's screaming something at Derek, who stands there impassive as always, not even bothering to dignify Stiles's anger with a frown.
Isaac watches the confrontation with an undisguised glee, knowing that all that rage has to go somewhere, has to rain on someone's shoulders. And if Derek won't be Stiles's outlet, well Isaac is certainly willing to be.
He winks at the Derek, then blows a kiss to Stiles.
"Come and find me when you're finished," he says before sauntering out of the room.
---
They aren't careful with each other. In fact, they are the direct opposite of careful. Nothing is off limits, no hold is barred. Stiles is single minded in his viciousness, spitting out ugly truths as he bites his way down Isaac's body, fingers curling painfully tight around his hips.
The words ought to hurt, ought to sting, but instead they make something delicate bloom in Isaac's chest. Make him smile, his fingers soft at the nape of Stiles's neck, almost tender as he shoves Stiles's head further down.
"I love you like this," he murmurs as he thrusts his hips up, forcing himself deeper into Stiles's hot mouth. Stiles sputters and gags on his cock and Isaac laughs, loud and bright, as Stiles’s nails dig into his hips.
---
Sometimes he thinks it will consume him whole, the twisted mess of rage and anger and fear. The power is there too, tangled up in his emotions, weaving through his thoughts like a bright red thread. He could bite. He could claw. He could howl at the moon. There are so many ways the power could slip free, could turn the gaping emptiness inside of him into action, could translate that anger and fear into blood and pain.
He thinks about it, letting go, unleashing his wolf completely. He thinks about it far more than he should.
He thinks about fingers twisting up in hair, about hands gripping tight around throats. About how good it would feel to slam his fist into someone again and again and again.
But he doesn’t.
He won’t.
Not when there’s still...
Stiles.
---
Stiles’s hands shake and his eyes water. He’s bent over, sucking air in with a disconcerting wheeze and Isaac has to bite down on his cheek to keep from whimpering.
He wants to reach out, wants to run a hand down the curve of Stiles’s spine, to offer whatever slim comfort he can. But he doesn’t. He can’t. They aren’t like that. They don’t... Isaac isn’t...
“You aren’t supposed to get hurt,” he grits out.
Stiles glances up at him, eyes bright with pain. “You hurt me worse than this all the time,” he says, voice trying desperately to be teasing, but all Isaac can hear is the ragged hiss that accompanies them.
Isaac let out a snarl, his claws raking the air in frustration and Stiles laughs. It’s a horrible, broken thing, filled with hisses and pops and the sound of lungs not quite functioning, but it’s a laugh all the same.
“I’ll make a note,” Stiles huffs, wincing a little as he straightens. “Only Isaac is allowed to damage his property, hum?”
Isaac does whimper at that, high and pathetic and god. When did this happen? When did Stiles start to matter?
“Get over here, you idiot,” Stiles says and Isaac is moving before the words are finished, crossing the space between them and wrapping the other boy in his arms.
“Only me,” he says as he holds Stiles tight. Too tight, if the broken sound Stiles’s makes is anything to go by. But Isaac can’t loosen his grip. “Only me.”
---
Isaac is laughing again. Wild and unfettered under the full belly of the moon. He runs and runs, pushing his body to the edge of his limits, but try as he might, he can’t outrun his thoughts, can’t escape the buzzing of his mind.
Monster, his mind tells him. Monster.
He swipes at a deer, claws raking flesh, blood dripping wetly over his hands. The animal doesn’t make a sound, just veers to the left and Isaac doesn’t bother to follow, choosing instead to run faster, hands and feet hitting the ground in an easy rhythm.
The wind carries a scent to him, musky and rich, tugging at him in ways he can’t understand. Isaac howls, head tipped up at the sky, then loops back around, and races towards it, tracing it down until he finds himself on a familiar street, halfway up a tree, eyes glued to a window two blocks away.
Mine, he thinks as he curls around a sturdy branch. Mine.
---
Stiles’s hands are soft, gentle even, skimming over the skin of Isaac’s back. His breath is a hot puff against Isaac’s neck and he’s letting out delicious half-whines, small sounds that dance down Isaac’s spine.
“Please,” he says, his voice rough as his fingers tighten on Isaac’s shoulders. “Please.”
His eyes are wide, so impossibly wide, and Isaac feels his heart clench. “Shut up,” he hisses even as he gives Stiles’s what he begging for. “Just shut up.”
---
Isaac isn’t anyone’s idea of beautiful, not by any means of the imagination. Damaged, yes. Fractured in ways that are pleasing, twisted enough to be lovely and intriguing. But beautiful? Flawless? No. Never.
He’s not great work of art and he knows it.
But...
But Stiles.
Stiles with his motor mouth and spastic energy, never able to stay still, who must be constantly in motion. Stiles, who has it in him to be so good, so perfectly right; who anyone would want to have, be delighted to belong to. Stiles, who looks at Isaac like he’s someone worth having, worth keeping.
When Stiles looks at him, Isaac can almost believe that beautiful might be within his reach.
It's never been about love, this thing they have between them. It's all hurt and heat and the desperate need to feel something, anything.
It's mouths and teeth and biting down hard on plump lower lips, Isaac's gasp of pain melting into a mewls of want. It's Stiles's hands gripping tight, tight enough to bruise, as he slams in, shoving his way deeper while Isaac's hands turn to claws, tearing into the mattress he is shoved face down in. It's a thousand minor hurts that heal in an instant, scratches and bites marks and finger spaced bruises that throb into life before vanishing as quickly as they came.
There's nothing soft or sweet or tender about it. No heartfelt whispers in the night or hands twined together in the sheets. Even their kisses have an edge to them, teeth scraping along tongues and their lips crash into each other.
They have no kind moments between them, nothing to bind them together, no happy memories to share.
But still... their time together, those desperate hungry moments, mean more to him than anything else on earth.
A.N.: Inspired by this poem:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon does not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
- Buddy Wakefield
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R (hard)
Word Count: 1,592
Summary: There's a darkness in him, an angry festering hole. It makes him laugh at the moon, head tipped back and eyes wild, taking vicious pleasure in the fact that the monster outside reflects the monster within.
There's a darkness in him, an angry festering hole. It makes him laugh at the moon, head tipped back and eyes wild, taking vicious pleasure in the fact that the monster outside reflects the monster within.
He runs through the night, that mad laughter still ringing in his ears, hunting down anything foolish enough to cross his path.
A pair of rabbits. A squirrel. Something with feathers he thinks might have been a quail. All run, but none run fast enough.
When he wakes in the morning there is a foul tastes in his mouth and blood crusted on his lips. Erica makes a face and Derek rolls his eyes. And Isaac laughs again. Because what is there to be afraid of when the monster in the closet is him?
---
It starts with a kiss. Or, more accurately, a shove that turned into a kiss-- dark and filthy and so full of hate that Isaac can almost taste it when he licks his way inside.
Stiles's rocks against him, hands tangled up in Isaac's curls, fingers twisting viciously, yanking Isaac's head back and exposing his neck. He tears his mouth away from Isaac's, angles his head and then bites, teeth snapping closed on the side of Isaac's neck, sending icy tendrils of want through Isaac's veins.
They rutt together like animals, fast and dirty, gasping out curse words as they come.
Isaac sneers as he pulls away, opens his mouth to say something nasty, but Stiles beats him to the punch.
"Don't think this means I like you," he pants, grimacing as he adjusts himself. "Because I still think you're a dick."
And Isaac laughs because it's perfect. Stiles is perfect, with his angry eyes and that bitter twist to his lips.
"You loved it," Isaac taunts, rubbing his sticky crotch against Stiles, laughing harder at the annoyed look he gets in response.
---
He watches from the shadows, far enough away not to be spotted. Derek might think that lurking in plain sight makes things easier, a slightly less bitter pill to swallow, but Isaac knows better.
So he waits for the cover of dark before making his move, climbing halfway up a tree two blocks down from where he desperately wants to be. His eyes are trained on a window. Stiles’s window. The light is off, has been for the last twenty minutes, and Stiles’s breathing has settled into the soft rhythm of sleep.
There is nothing more to see here. Barely anything to hear. But Isaac sits and Isaac watches, waiting for the morning and the light it brings with it.
---
Stiles's face is twisted up in a snarl, his hands balled into fists. He's screaming something at Derek, who stands there impassive as always, not even bothering to dignify Stiles's anger with a frown.
Isaac watches the confrontation with an undisguised glee, knowing that all that rage has to go somewhere, has to rain on someone's shoulders. And if Derek won't be Stiles's outlet, well Isaac is certainly willing to be.
He winks at the Derek, then blows a kiss to Stiles.
"Come and find me when you're finished," he says before sauntering out of the room.
---
They aren't careful with each other. In fact, they are the direct opposite of careful. Nothing is off limits, no hold is barred. Stiles is single minded in his viciousness, spitting out ugly truths as he bites his way down Isaac's body, fingers curling painfully tight around his hips.
The words ought to hurt, ought to sting, but instead they make something delicate bloom in Isaac's chest. Make him smile, his fingers soft at the nape of Stiles's neck, almost tender as he shoves Stiles's head further down.
"I love you like this," he murmurs as he thrusts his hips up, forcing himself deeper into Stiles's hot mouth. Stiles sputters and gags on his cock and Isaac laughs, loud and bright, as Stiles’s nails dig into his hips.
---
Sometimes he thinks it will consume him whole, the twisted mess of rage and anger and fear. The power is there too, tangled up in his emotions, weaving through his thoughts like a bright red thread. He could bite. He could claw. He could howl at the moon. There are so many ways the power could slip free, could turn the gaping emptiness inside of him into action, could translate that anger and fear into blood and pain.
He thinks about it, letting go, unleashing his wolf completely. He thinks about it far more than he should.
He thinks about fingers twisting up in hair, about hands gripping tight around throats. About how good it would feel to slam his fist into someone again and again and again.
But he doesn’t.
He won’t.
Not when there’s still...
Stiles.
---
Stiles’s hands shake and his eyes water. He’s bent over, sucking air in with a disconcerting wheeze and Isaac has to bite down on his cheek to keep from whimpering.
He wants to reach out, wants to run a hand down the curve of Stiles’s spine, to offer whatever slim comfort he can. But he doesn’t. He can’t. They aren’t like that. They don’t... Isaac isn’t...
“You aren’t supposed to get hurt,” he grits out.
Stiles glances up at him, eyes bright with pain. “You hurt me worse than this all the time,” he says, voice trying desperately to be teasing, but all Isaac can hear is the ragged hiss that accompanies them.
Isaac let out a snarl, his claws raking the air in frustration and Stiles laughs. It’s a horrible, broken thing, filled with hisses and pops and the sound of lungs not quite functioning, but it’s a laugh all the same.
“I’ll make a note,” Stiles huffs, wincing a little as he straightens. “Only Isaac is allowed to damage his property, hum?”
Isaac does whimper at that, high and pathetic and god. When did this happen? When did Stiles start to matter?
“Get over here, you idiot,” Stiles says and Isaac is moving before the words are finished, crossing the space between them and wrapping the other boy in his arms.
“Only me,” he says as he holds Stiles tight. Too tight, if the broken sound Stiles’s makes is anything to go by. But Isaac can’t loosen his grip. “Only me.”
---
Isaac is laughing again. Wild and unfettered under the full belly of the moon. He runs and runs, pushing his body to the edge of his limits, but try as he might, he can’t outrun his thoughts, can’t escape the buzzing of his mind.
Monster, his mind tells him. Monster.
He swipes at a deer, claws raking flesh, blood dripping wetly over his hands. The animal doesn’t make a sound, just veers to the left and Isaac doesn’t bother to follow, choosing instead to run faster, hands and feet hitting the ground in an easy rhythm.
The wind carries a scent to him, musky and rich, tugging at him in ways he can’t understand. Isaac howls, head tipped up at the sky, then loops back around, and races towards it, tracing it down until he finds himself on a familiar street, halfway up a tree, eyes glued to a window two blocks away.
Mine, he thinks as he curls around a sturdy branch. Mine.
---
Stiles’s hands are soft, gentle even, skimming over the skin of Isaac’s back. His breath is a hot puff against Isaac’s neck and he’s letting out delicious half-whines, small sounds that dance down Isaac’s spine.
“Please,” he says, his voice rough as his fingers tighten on Isaac’s shoulders. “Please.”
His eyes are wide, so impossibly wide, and Isaac feels his heart clench. “Shut up,” he hisses even as he gives Stiles’s what he begging for. “Just shut up.”
---
Isaac isn’t anyone’s idea of beautiful, not by any means of the imagination. Damaged, yes. Fractured in ways that are pleasing, twisted enough to be lovely and intriguing. But beautiful? Flawless? No. Never.
He’s not great work of art and he knows it.
But...
But Stiles.
Stiles with his motor mouth and spastic energy, never able to stay still, who must be constantly in motion. Stiles, who has it in him to be so good, so perfectly right; who anyone would want to have, be delighted to belong to. Stiles, who looks at Isaac like he’s someone worth having, worth keeping.
When Stiles looks at him, Isaac can almost believe that beautiful might be within his reach.
It's never been about love, this thing they have between them. It's all hurt and heat and the desperate need to feel something, anything.
It's mouths and teeth and biting down hard on plump lower lips, Isaac's gasp of pain melting into a mewls of want. It's Stiles's hands gripping tight, tight enough to bruise, as he slams in, shoving his way deeper while Isaac's hands turn to claws, tearing into the mattress he is shoved face down in. It's a thousand minor hurts that heal in an instant, scratches and bites marks and finger spaced bruises that throb into life before vanishing as quickly as they came.
There's nothing soft or sweet or tender about it. No heartfelt whispers in the night or hands twined together in the sheets. Even their kisses have an edge to them, teeth scraping along tongues and their lips crash into each other.
They have no kind moments between them, nothing to bind them together, no happy memories to share.
But still... their time together, those desperate hungry moments, mean more to him than anything else on earth.
A.N.: Inspired by this poem:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon does not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
- Buddy Wakefield